


ta med dig solen

by escherzo



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, First Time, M/M, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 01:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12048135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “So,” Gabe says.“No,” Tyson says. “We do not need to talk about this.”





	ta med dig solen

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is from a delightful Swedish pop song by Jakob Karlberg and, if Google Translate can be trusted, translates roughly to 'bring the sun with you') 
> 
> For a friend who wanted more trans fic and, specifically, trans Tyson.

“So,” Gabe says.

“No,” Tyson says. “We do not need to talk about this.”

“But—“

“No.”

*

Gabe is a good captain. He’s a mess of a human being, sometimes, and loses his chill on the ice way too much to be a proper role model, and spends a thousand hours too many preening himself in front of mirrors, but—when the chips are down, he will be there for you and try to help you as much as he’s able. Tyson gets this. 

This is not one of those situations. The chips are not down. The chips are firmly in the bag, where they belong, thank you.

“But—“

“ _No_ , Gabe. Go read a book about it or something.”

It is entirely possible Gabe is out of his depth. Likely, even. The whole ‘so, I’m not actually a never-nude, I am just transgender and also could you please be chill about this for the love of god’ situation is probably not one he really encountered before now.

He is at least trying to be chill. He’s just kind of doing a shit job of it. 

Tyson might be willing to be an educator in this regard on most days, at least where Gabe is concerned, but today, he is hungover as shit and Gabe came over at seven AM on a training camp day to talk about the new season and literally caught him with his pants down—or, uh, off, really—and he needs coffee and aspirin and maybe some eggs before he is prepared to have any of those conversations. 

“Uh, so.” Gabe scrubs a hand through his hair. “Uh.”

It’s kind of fascinating. Usually you can’t shut the guy up, and here he is tripping over himself trying to start a single sentence.

“Go make me some eggs and let me get some pants on,” Tyson says.

“Right. Okay.”

*

Tyson has to take a moment, once he’s back in his room, to sit on his bed and breathe. It’s just Gabe, but his heart is pounding out of his chest, and he hasn’t even noticed until now. Shit. If anyone will roll with this it’s Gabe—or, well, Nate probably would too—but, fuck, this was a conversation that was supposed to happen literally never. 

Well. Nothing to do but go with it now.

“Fried eggs coming right up,” Gabe informs him when he gets back into the kitchen.

Tyson shoots him a thumbs up. He seems… calm enough, at least, so that’s something. Not overtly hostile. Willing to cook for him still, and that’s a good sign.

“So, um,” Gabe begins, passing him a plate.

“Nope. Lemme eat first.”

Gabe blinks, shrugs, moves back towards the stove to try and finagle a cup of coffee out of the Keurig, which Factor set up and didn’t properly explain the custom settings of and now he’s been traded, so. 

“You can ask three questions,” Tyson says, once he’s halfway through the eggs and trying not to laugh at Gabe visibly holding back profanities towards his uncooperative coffee maker. “I mean I guess I could do more than three but I need coffee for that.” 

“Who else knows?” Gabe asks, and he should have figured that would be the first one. 

“Management. Couple of the guys on the Rockets.” 

“Wait, really?” Gabe frowns. “I figured juniors guys would be dicks about it.”

Tyson can’t help but laugh. “I was sixteen and looked like I was twelve and my voice broke half the time. It was pretty obvious.”

“Did that count as a second question?”

“Depends, are you getting me coffee?”

“I’m _trying_.”

“I’ll be nice. No, didn’t count.” Tyson hesitates for a moment before adding, “You don’t get to ask what name I was born with. For the record. I don’t share that.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“… Yeah, I was. How did you pick Tyson?”

“I was hungry and the package of chicken was there.”

“Seriously?”

Tyson laughs. “No! Jeez.”

This is a lie, actually, but Tyson has the good sense to know that it’s embarrassing to share that. Look, the advice for naming pets online-which he figured was as good as any other pick-a-name talk—was to go with something that you associated with good things, and when he was picking he was going through second puberty and was hungry 24/7, okay. 

“Okay, third question.”

“Did you really go out drinking last night? We have to do the endurance tests today, Tys.” 

Jeez, captain mode, okay.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gabe gives him his best disapproving captain look, though there’s a smile in his eyes that really ruins the effect. 

*

Training camp is… about as miserable as training camp usually is, and Bednar is pushing them harder than he did last year. Then again, they all know perfectly well how last year went. Drinking last night was not a great life choice in retrospect, but then again, from the looks of everyone else, Tyson’s not faring that bad. 

“You ok?” Tyson asks Tyuts, who has been valiantly trying not to show his age during the endurance tests but is… definitely showing his age. 

Tyuts is perfectly aware that that’s why Tyson is asking, clearly, because he nods and then curses him out in Russian under his breath. 

“I do know what you’re saying, you know.”

“Uh huh.” 

“You really shouldn’t talk about my mama that way, you know, it’s not her fault I’m an asshole.”

“… Fuck.”

Tyson grins. He knows like, twenty words of Russian, and all of those are profanity. 

“You really should respect your elders,” Gabe tells him, skating up, and he jostles Tyson enough that he has to grab onto the boards real quick to not fall on his ass. It’s so normal, so him, Tyson could kiss him. Maybe he really is just going to roll with this. 

The whistle blows and Bednar yells out, “Next group!” and Tyson doesn’t get the chance to do much thinking after that, too busy skating until his legs are about to fall off.

*

“So,” Gabe says, head lolling back against Tyson’s couch, controller forgotten in his hands. “I have a question.” 

He’s really drunk. They both are, honestly, but Gabe pretends being Swedish gives him extra tolerance and Tyson has never seen a hint of evidence to back that theory up. Drunk Gabe is generally hilarious, and also generally naked—and Tyson has eyes, okay—and so Tyson is happy to let himself lose drinking contests to his captain. 

For the record, Gabe is only half naked at the moment, and was just getting his ass kicked at chel because his hand-eye coordination is the first thing to go.

“What kind of question?” Tyson asks, stomach lurching with nerves all of a sudden.

Gabe is quiet for a long moment.

“Is it weird that I still want to kiss you?”

Tyson swallows down the bile that threatens to rise up. “Thanks for the ego boost, Landy.”

“No, no,” Gabe says, waving both hands. “Not like—“ He’s quiet for a long moment, and then continues, “Tys, I’m gay.” He curls in on himself, staring down at the floor. 

Saying, “and?” feels rude, but it’s Tyson’s first, second, and third impulse, and so he stays quiet.

“I’ve never told anyone that before. And you don’t have—you know. And I still want to kiss you.”

“I’m—“ Every word feels so fragile, as he lets it out. “I’m close enough, I guess.” Tyson shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to know how to feel. “I, uh. Hey, well, I have some in my closet.”

Gabe lets out a bark of laughter, like it escaped him without his say-so. “How many?”

“Five?” Tyson opens his eyes, and Gabe is smiling at him, and it’s a little easier in the moment, then, to smile back. “One is a little weird though.”

“A little weird?”

“It, uh…” Oh, god, this is not a conversation he planned on having with anyone ever, also. “One of them may be a silicon tentacle.”

“Tyson!”

“What?”

Gabe looks at him with a pretend-stern face on. “The Wings are our arch-enemies,” he says, and the corners of his mouth are turning up like he’s trying not to laugh as he says it. 

“… keep your enemies closer?” Tyson offers. He’s still feeling raw, but Gabe cracks up at that, and laughing along eases the knot in his chest a bit. 

*

They don’t kiss. Not then, anyway. Even if, in the moment, Tyson thinks about it.

*

“So I was thinking,” Gabe says, media smile turned up to eleven. “We should really spotlight people who are out in our segment. You guys know about Harrison Browne, right?” 

Gabe’s done YCP for awhile now, and sometimes Tyson tags along when he meets with its coordinators, even if he’s not quite brave enough to be part of the campaign on his own, but—this is new.

Tyson’s texted with Harry for a couple of months now, though he’s never told Gabe so. He doesn’t know whether to smile or curl in on himself to soothe the sudden ache in his chest, because this means—this means Gabe has done some research of his own, and thinks it’s important. That people like him are important. Maybe this isn’t the highest bar, but—it’s a bar Gabe is clearing all of a sudden, and that’s. That’s a lot. 

“Of course!” the rep says, smiling back just as bright. “Do you know him?”

“Just watched him play. He goes hard.”

Tyson breathes in, out, picks some dirt out from under his nails, in, out. He is a rock of stability.

“I know him,” he tells Gabe, after. “We text sometimes. I can give you his number if you want.”

“That would be cool,” Gabe says. In, out. 

*

They win their third game in the second week of October, after only five games, and Gabe kisses Tyson.

These facts are somewhat related.

“You absolute beauty,” Gabe tells him, beer on his breath, and pulls Tyson into a tight hug, and Tyson has to flail out to not completely fall face-first into Gabe’s lap in the restaurant booth. Everyone else coos and tells them they’re adorable, the shits, and Tyson grins and snuggles into the crook of Gabe’s neck and breathes him in. It’s been a long while since he got a game-winning goal, much less two goals on the night, and he’s been having shots passed to him for an hour by everyone else on the team who doesn’t have to go home early to see their kids. Everything is so pleasant and fuzzy and Gabe smells so good. He can’t help but nuzzle him a bit.

“Get a room,” someone says, but Gabe’s arm is around Tyson’s head and it’s pretty muffled so he can’t quite make out who. He flips them off anyway.

“Come dance?” Gabe asks, and that he does catch perfectly well, and he nods against Gabe’s skin. 

It’s not really Tyson’s kind of music, and he really can’t dance, but Gabe seems happy to dance up on him anyway, back pressed to Tyson’s front, and Tyson can’t help but lose himself in the thudding beat, the heat of it, the shivery pleasure of Gabe grinding on him like this. It’s not—he’s trying not to think about this too much but it’s probably not what Gabe’s used to, feeling a packer and not something alive and responsive that can actually get hard, but Gabe doesn’t really seem to mind that much. 

“Hey,” Gabe says, looking over his shoulder. “Everyone else left.”

“Did they stick us with the bill? Those fuckers.”

“Probably. It’s ok, I’ll pay.” Gabe looks at him, a little sly. “You want to show me what you’ve got in your closet?”

Tyson takes a moment and then his eyes widen. What he’s got in-- _oh_. 

“Not the tentacle, though, right?” he asks, just to try and lighten the mood for a moment so he doesn’t just press Gabe against the wall right there and then. 

“Maybe later,” Gabe says, winking as he moves away to go take the bill. Asshole. 

*

“I love how you sound,” Gabe says, pulling away from Tyson just enough to work his shirt over his head. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t even look, really, just leans back in to recapture Tyson’s lips, tongue slicking against his, swallowing the little huffing noises Tyson makes as Gabe’s hands move over his skin. Tyson has him muscled up against the wall, the bulk of him holding Gabe where he is, and when Tyson shifts to pin Gabe’s wrists in place Gabe shivers and closes his eyes. 

“Hey,” Tyson says, feeling bold in the moment, “come pick what I fuck you with.” 

Gabe shivers harder and nods, and the two of them shuffle down the hallway to Tyson’s bedroom, pausing to kiss again and again.

He picks the biggest Tyson has. 

“You sure?” Tyson asks, trying to remember to breathe as he works on the harness. “It’s a lot.” 

Gabe lays back and stretches out, naked and grinning and hard. “Get on with it, big boy.” 

Fuck. 

He doesn’t want much prep, kicks at Tyson with his heel when Tyson doesn’t fuck him with his fingers hard enough, tries to be gentle and not work up past one too fast. He’s so noisy. Pants and moans as Tyson’s fingers work him over, shoves down on them hard and wants more, more. Tyson’s got more, way more, harnessed to him, and Gabe wants it, bad.

“You sure you’re sure?”

“Just _fuck_ me.”

Tyson is going to be hearing the noise Gabe makes when he slides inside in his dreams for a long time. He shudders and clutches at Tyson’s back, nails digging in, eyes closed and lips slack, and if Tyson thought for even a moment that some of that might be pain the moan Gabe lets out when he moves his hips for the first time dispels that entirely. Gabe holds onto him like he wants to be nowhere else, spread out and fucked and stuffed so full. 

“Size queen,” Tyson teases, rocking his hips, and Gabe tries to scowl only to lose the words he was trying for on Tyson’s next thrust in.

“Shut-- _harder_ ,” Gabe says, after a moment, and Tyson does, fucking Gabe hard enough that his own hips are starting to ache. He reaches for Gabe, and gets his hand swatted away, Gabe stretching out and clutching at the sheets with his eyes closed after.

“Don’t need it. Just keep going.”

Gabe comes, untouched, writhing underneath Tyson, and he tugs so hard on the sheets he pulls the fitted sheet off one edge. 

He’s made such a mess of himself, and Tyson’s so busy marveling at that he barely takes note of Gabe tugging the harness down, flipping Tyson over so he’s on top. 

“Tell me what you need,” Gabe says, still so out of breath.

“Just—“ Tyson guides Gabe’s hand down, pressing hard just above the base of his clit and getting him to massage there, shocky pleasure moving through Tyson with every rub. 

“You sure you don’t want me to—you know. Lower?”

“Too sensitive,” Tyson chokes out. “Just press down as hard as you can, right there.” 

“Oh my god,” Gabe breathes as Tyson tenses up and comes, staring down at him. “You—I can see your-- you twitch. Can you do two? Are you still able to?”

“Yeah. Just two though? Haven’t—fuck. Haven’t gone past two.” 

Gabe doesn’t stop, fingers pressing hard and down, and Tyson comes again, whimpering high enough he flushes at the sound of himself. 

There’s a glint in Gabe’s eyes, and Tyson kicks at the back of his leg before he gets any ideas. “Two’s enough. If you try for more I might die.”

“Well,” Gabe says, and he’s silent for a moment. “A risk for another day,” he says finally, two fingers stroking his beard in an over-exaggerated motion of contemplation. 

Tyson very pointedly does not mention that he might need to wash said beard, given where those fingers have just been. 

*

In the morning, Gabe makes him breakfast wearing nothing but boxers and then picks the tentacle dildo to get fucked with.

It’s a pretty great start to the day.


End file.
